Rescued
by Rmorris27
Summary: John is still waiting for his miracle. He'll wait as long as it takes. Johnlock if you squint and tilt your head.


Set to the Jack's Mannequin song, "Rescued".

Enjoy.

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Rescued 

"_And I'm finally numb, so please don't get me rescued_"

John Watson stood in the exact spot he had that day for the twenty first time since it'd happened. It was here that he'd answered the phone and looked up to see that figure on the roof, perched dangerously close to the edge. Here, that he had reached out a hand to try and grasp the one that the figure was offering out to him, begging that he "keep his eyes fixed on me".

It was here that he'd watched Sherlock fall faster than his wings could catch him. Moriarty had once said that Sherlock was on the side of the angels, something that Sherlock had laughed at and informed him that he was indeed on their side, but that he was not one of them. If he had been, maybe then he would have had wings and then, maybe, John wouldn't be standing there alone as always.

He pulled his mobile out of his pocket with a shaking hand, dialed his number and placed it against his ear. He turned and looked up to that spot on the roof.

"Sherlock I'm here again, I'm waiting" he whispered into the speaker. He waited for a reply, for that last miracle that he'd asked for. The line played out, dead and unhearing. John's eyes squeezed shut and he quickly stuffed the phone back into his pocket before turning on his heels and making his way towards the tube station.

The people on the streets moved out of his way, tossing him sad smiles and slight nods as he passed them. Most people still recognised him as the man that worked with Sherlock Holmes- as his friend. A train sped into the station just as John stepped off of the escalator, he got on the second carriage and took a seat at the door. A poster was stuck to the window opposite him: _I believe in Sherlock Holmes_, written in large print. These posters had been becoming popular, most of the campaign to clear Sherlock's name had been organised by Lestrade and the people that had been helped by the detective. These people, much like John, had seen him work up close, and couldn't doubt the power of his observations.

Four stops later John got off and began walking to his flat. He still couldn't look at Baker Street, if Mrs. Hudson visited it was always at John's. The room was much like the one he had before he met the detective that day in Barts, dull, empty, and cold. His entire life had reverted back into what it had been. The limp and the tremor, the loneliness and the nightmares.

His phone sounded from his pocket, Lestrade asking if he fancied going for a drink to commemorate the day- one year since it'd happened. The temptation of alcohol proved too much and within the hour, Lestrade was waiting outside in a car. He had been working more or less non-stop trying to clear all of the allegations, and with Mycroft's help, had been making some progress. The long days and sleepless nights had worn the DI down, like John he looked older and more haggard that he used to when there was one other man in their company. They drove down the busy streets in relative silence before they reached the pub.

John picked a table while Lestrade got two pints from the barmaid. She was pretty, John noticed, but he'd lost interest in dating and people this past year. No one could compare, could cure all of his problems like Sherlock had that first night and so there was no point in looking. Once you've found perfection, everything else is flawed.

"To Sherlock Holmes," Greg raised his glass, John did the same, repeating the words and taking a drink. The night passed in that sort of beautiful sadness that comes with remembering.

They laughed about Sherlock's tendency to act like a five year old, his refusal to work with Anderson and his reaction to the men that had harmed Mrs. Hudson and allowed themselves to miss him and everything that he was. Greg got more drinks, and then a few more, and before either knew what had happened they were very drunk, and very numb. John didn't feel anything as they continued to talk about the mad git that had them all tearing at their hair, all he could think about was how much he hoped that Sherlock was working on his miracle because he wasn't going to last much longer.

Molly appeared a few hours later and took a seat next to Greg. She wasn't as upset as the two men, but John put that down to the fact that she was still sober.

Mrs. Hudson joined them too and together all of Sherlock's friends: the stand-in-mother who he had loved as if she were his own, The Police Chief who had believed in him when he needed a reason to stop the drugs, The Girl that everyone forgot and then John- John Watson who he had died to keep safe.

The night ended when the clocks changed to morning, each of the friends feeling heavy and sad and empty as they made their way home. Mrs. Hudson back to 221A, Molly and Lestrade to the tube station and John towards Bart's again, just incase he had heard earlier, incase the miracle was ready.

He stood in the exact spot and pulled his phone from his pocket, dialing his number and putting it to his ear. He reached out a hand and turned to look at the spot on the roof that had taken him.

"I'm still waiting Sherlock. Just one more, for me. Please Sherlock," the alcohol in his blood had removed the constraints of pride and his voice shook.

"Okay, you need more time, I'll wait Sher. As long as you need," his voice was cracked with tears and truth. The sun rose over the London sky and still John stood waiting for his miracle, phone by his ear and hand outstretched. People passed and stared, some asked if he was okay, but he didn't move his eyes from that spot, "_keep your eyes fixed on me_" he'd said and that's exactly what john would do- keep his eyes there until a figure in a big coat and a scarf with unruly curls appeared up there and reached out for him.

Molly had been leaving to get something for lunch from a cafe just down the street when she saw him standing in the road. She approached him slowly and placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. John looked down at the hand and then to her face, disappointment apparent on his when it wasn't Sherlock's hand there. She took his hand and pulled him gently inside to her lab and sat him down. John stood up and walked over to the chair that Sherlock used to occupy behind the microscope and sat there before falling back into his daze. She handed him a coffee and tried talking to him but there was no reply from the doctor, he just blinked every so often. A half hour passed and still John hadn't said anything or even moved, the coffee had grown cold where it sat on the table.

"John," she finally asked, "are you alright?" She was worried about him more now than she had in the past months. Sherlock had asked her to keep an eye on John after they had finished dealing with Sherlock's 'body' and his faked death certificate and each day she felt like she could fix everything by simply telling John that Sherlock was alive. But, she couldn't, and so she remained by John's side until finally he spoke.

His head turned to her, his eyes were bloodshot and red.

"Why am I here?" he whispered to her.

"John you were standing in the middle of the road outside."

"I was waiting for him,"

"John, he's gone." His eyes squeezed shut and his head turned away from her slightly.

"I'm numb Molly, totally numb. I was outside waiting for him, for one more miracle but he's still not there," John's voice cracked on the last word, he drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"You can't keep waiting for him to rescue you John," Molly reached for his hand but stopped short and clasped her hands on her lap when she saw John's tremble on the table top.

"I don't want rescued", John stood up and marched out of the door leaving Molly alone with a cold cup of coffee in her lab.

The doors of Bart's opened as he approached them heading for the spot again.

He took his phone from his pocket and held it to his ear. Looking up at the spot he reached out a hand and asked Sherlock for his miracle again. He waited, as he always would. He was numb out there, but standing in that spot with his phone to his ear he felt like Sherlock could hear him, that he was up on the roof, just not in his view.

"C'mon Sherlock. Stop it. Stop this." John's fingers twitched on his raised hand, grasping for something that just wasn't there.

"Just one more, please. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me," the line still played out, the number he had dialed didn't have someone listening on the other end of it.

"Please," he whispered, lowering his hand. He pressed the phone closer to his ear, listening desperately for that something that was never there.

He opened his eyes and looked up at the spot again. Arm raised he opened his hand to the man that wasn't there for the last time and listened. Nothing. He wasn't getting his miracle after all.

He took a step back and turned on his heels to leave but stopped when he heard the slow, steady sound of someones breath at the other end of the phone.

"Sherlock?" he whispered into the speaker.

The breathing stopped and the line went dead.


End file.
